and a fish and chip shop, which was a real cash cow for us kids as they would give you the money back on returned bottles.
We duly obliged by climbing over the back wall into the yard where they kept crates full of returned bottles. We would pass them over the wall to other waiting kids, then stroll round the front of the chip shop and, without batting an eyelid, inform the manager that we had a lot of returnable bottles. You could only do it once a week, otherwise the manager would get suspicious.
After getting the money, we would wait until just before closing, when we would go in and ask whoever was serving if they had any ‘scrackling’, which is stray batter that has fallen down to the bottom of the fryer and is dredged up by the cook in a huge spoon and kindly put in a cone of paper. They didn’t mind as it was only fat and it would normally go in the bin anyway. Then we would sit on thewall outside, boasting to the other kids riding around on their bikes that we had not only made money that day, but also got a free meal.
Of course, a meal consisting of pure fat nowadays would be considered so unhealthy. Just looking at it, Madonna would scream in horror, collapse and shrivel into a steaming pile. But we loved it!
Across the street from the parade of shops was the Giant Gorham pub. It was certainly a rough place, but it had such an atmosphere that we’d get our entertainment every weekend by just hanging around eating crisps and mimicking the drinkers inside. We all sat there with the bottles of Tizer which one of the kid’s parents had bought us to keep us happy outside while they got pissed inside.
For us kids, it was really exciting sitting about outside until eleven at night, watching people struggle out of the pub with blood pouring from their noses! Every weekend the Giant Gorham would put on entertainment. The resident band would have to back anyone unfortunate enough to be booked there to entertain the mostly drunk and disorderly dock-workers. After the guest acts had either died on their arses or been dismembered and sold off for parts, it was time for some of the locals to get up and have a go.
We would sit in the car park outside, enveloped in the beery cloud that emanated from the pub doors, drinking, eating, listening and watching the huge frosted-glass frontage. Through that, we could see the wobbly outline of animated figures inside who were lit up by coloured flashing lights. Every week, the usual suspects wouldclimb on to the stage and have a go at singing with the band. It was not a pretty sight.
Then every now and then towards the end of the night, the doors would swing open and out would fall one of the locals, mumbling drunkenly and staggering up the road. For us, the big prize was Paddy. Paddy lived about a hundred yards from the pub and was well known to us kids as ‘The Slot Machine’. He would stumble out of the pub at the same time every Saturday, as his strict wife ordered him to be home by twelve.
He would crash out of the doors and stand in the middle of the car park, swaying and rocking, like a sapling in a tornado. As he tried to focus on the route home, he would suddenly be surrounded by us kids. In order to get the slot machine to pay out, you had to say the magic words to Paddy: ‘’Ere, Paddy, you ain’t got no money!’
To which he would shout back, slurring his words: ‘Ieeev goh looooaaads a mawneee!’
All the kids would then buzz about his legs like manic flies. He would wave his arms around in the middle of us, like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building, trying vainly to swat us.
‘You ain’t got no money, Paddy, you spent it all,’ we would taunt.
‘I’ve got millions!’ he would rant, delving deep into his trouser pockets and pulling out handfuls of change to show us the evidence in his clenched fists. ‘See, you bastards!’ He would then hurl the change, spraying it right across the car park floor. ‘There, look, I’m loaded!’
We
We duly obliged by climbing over the back wall into the yard where they kept crates full of returned bottles. We would pass them over the wall to other waiting kids, then stroll round the front of the chip shop and, without batting an eyelid, inform the manager that we had a lot of returnable bottles. You could only do it once a week, otherwise the manager would get suspicious.
After getting the money, we would wait until just before closing, when we would go in and ask whoever was serving if they had any ‘scrackling’, which is stray batter that has fallen down to the bottom of the fryer and is dredged up by the cook in a huge spoon and kindly put in a cone of paper. They didn’t mind as it was only fat and it would normally go in the bin anyway. Then we would sit on thewall outside, boasting to the other kids riding around on their bikes that we had not only made money that day, but also got a free meal.
Of course, a meal consisting of pure fat nowadays would be considered so unhealthy. Just looking at it, Madonna would scream in horror, collapse and shrivel into a steaming pile. But we loved it!
Across the street from the parade of shops was the Giant Gorham pub. It was certainly a rough place, but it had such an atmosphere that we’d get our entertainment every weekend by just hanging around eating crisps and mimicking the drinkers inside. We all sat there with the bottles of Tizer which one of the kid’s parents had bought us to keep us happy outside while they got pissed inside.
For us kids, it was really exciting sitting about outside until eleven at night, watching people struggle out of the pub with blood pouring from their noses! Every weekend the Giant Gorham would put on entertainment. The resident band would have to back anyone unfortunate enough to be booked there to entertain the mostly drunk and disorderly dock-workers. After the guest acts had either died on their arses or been dismembered and sold off for parts, it was time for some of the locals to get up and have a go.
We would sit in the car park outside, enveloped in the beery cloud that emanated from the pub doors, drinking, eating, listening and watching the huge frosted-glass frontage. Through that, we could see the wobbly outline of animated figures inside who were lit up by coloured flashing lights. Every week, the usual suspects wouldclimb on to the stage and have a go at singing with the band. It was not a pretty sight.
Then every now and then towards the end of the night, the doors would swing open and out would fall one of the locals, mumbling drunkenly and staggering up the road. For us, the big prize was Paddy. Paddy lived about a hundred yards from the pub and was well known to us kids as ‘The Slot Machine’. He would stumble out of the pub at the same time every Saturday, as his strict wife ordered him to be home by twelve.
He would crash out of the doors and stand in the middle of the car park, swaying and rocking, like a sapling in a tornado. As he tried to focus on the route home, he would suddenly be surrounded by us kids. In order to get the slot machine to pay out, you had to say the magic words to Paddy: ‘’Ere, Paddy, you ain’t got no money!’
To which he would shout back, slurring his words: ‘Ieeev goh looooaaads a mawneee!’
All the kids would then buzz about his legs like manic flies. He would wave his arms around in the middle of us, like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building, trying vainly to swat us.
‘You ain’t got no money, Paddy, you spent it all,’ we would taunt.
‘I’ve got millions!’ he would rant, delving deep into his trouser pockets and pulling out handfuls of change to show us the evidence in his clenched fists. ‘See, you bastards!’ He would then hurl the change, spraying it right across the car park floor. ‘There, look, I’m loaded!’
We
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